The Phantom's Lullaby
by kaliawai512
Summary: There were always a few mysteries left unanswered about the Phantom, from the details of his past to what happened to him after the well known story. And perhaps, something even deeper than we thought about the name Christine...


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**Well, to all of the people who once knew this story in its full form, this is the most recent, edited version of the first chapter of "The Phantom's Lullaby." For all you new readers out there, you may be wondering why this story is named "complete," is not a oneshot, and yet only has one chapter. The answer is simple: as of November 20, 2008, this story is published and available for all to buy. So, as the author, I am required to take all but a small sample off of this website. I apologize to all my loyal reviewers.**

**Now, if you read this chapter and would like to read the rest, you can buy the book either in certain stores or from many online retailers (see my profile, under "Recent News," for details). Don't worry; I'm not a salesperson, so I'm not trying to convince you to buy this book because it's "the best thing out there" or something like that. Please buy it only if you truly want to read it. I'm fifteen: I don't need the money. I'm publishing this book to spread the story around the world.**

**This story is the story of the Phantom of the Opera, of the Phantom, from the time he was six years old to years afterwards. It has over forty chapters, and four parts. It is based upon the film version of the Broadway musical.**

**Anyway, you can go ahead and read now. I very much hope you enjoy it, and if you want to, you can feel free to buy it. Every book bought means the world to me! Thank you to all who have reviewed this story in the past! Here is the first chapter of "The Phantom's Lullaby"!**

-1-

The Devil's Child ran a finger along the rusty metal bar before him, almost longingly. Longing to escape this horrid place, longing for anything other than complete and utter hatred, longing for just the smallest bit of … love? No. For such a six-year-old, love was out of the question.

He watched each of the gypsies as they went about their duties for the day. Sometime—he wasn't sure when, as the sun was mostly blocked from his view—one entered the tent to drop him a bowl of stale mush.

"Eat it."

The words were a careless order, a harsh but meaningless demand. The man didn't care if this little boy ate his meal or not; his only concern was keeping the child alive to make money for the fair. Waiting a few minutes after the worker left, the Devil's Child cautiously picked up the dish and ate a few bites. He was always careful when they gave him something to eat; there was no telling what they could have put in it.

Once he was certain that it was safe, he dug in ravenously. One serving of this tasteless mush per day was all he got. Just enough to keep him going.

He shoved the bowl toward the bars the instant he finished his food. Once again, he pulled his knees up to his bare chest and huddled in a tiny corner of his cage. For some reason, he felt secure in that corner. More secure than he did anywhere else, at least. It wasn't a sanctuary. But it was all he had.

Many things separated the Devil's Child from the rest of the world. The men who ran the fair, the bars that caged him, his hideous face, the sack he wore to hide it … and his name.

Most babies are given a special name soon after they are born. But that wasn't the case with this child. As far as he knew, his mother had refused to name him. And even if she had, she never used that name enough for him to remember it. She had called him "you," or some insult, or sometimes even spat out something in another language that he couldn't understand.

With his lack of a name had come a title: "the Devil's Child." That was all he had ever been called. The gypsies rarely talked to him—only _about_ him, and the name they always used was "Devil's Child." So that had become his name.

The world hated him as his own mother had. Everyone treated him as if he was a worthless creature, born merely to be laughed at and to make money for the fair. In their eyes, he didn't deserve any more than that. He often silently asked himself why they didn't just kill him. Then his pain and misery would cease.

Hours after he received his meal, the boy was shaken from his thoughts by the sound of struggling. He jumped slightly, crawling closer to the unfamiliar noise coming from outside the tent. Slowly, the shadows of three people edged closer and closer until they were right in the doorway, their silhouettes clear before his eyes. What he saw almost made him gasp.

The first two he recognized as gypsies. But the third was someone he had never seen before. The person had shoulder-length, light brown hair—the same shade and just slightly longer than his own. The eyes shone a beautiful blue, swirling and hopeful. The figure, who was clad in dark green clothes with black gloves and boots, kicked and lashed out at the men holding onto the arms, obviously very angry and rebellious. But none of that was really noticed by the child. Only one thing struck him. The green-clad, black-gloved, brown-haired struggling captive …

… was a young woman.

He watched in silence as the men tossed her into the empty cage next to his, locking it as fast as they could. She leapt up from the hay and banged on the bars furiously. The gypsies ignored her, but she did not stop banging. She had such strength, such persistence. _And people said women were weak!_ She appeared so strong—a leader, brimming with confidence and determination to get what she wanted. He had only just seen her, yet he already admired her.

After a few minutes, she broke. She let her hands slip away from the bars and fall to her sides. She sighed, sitting back on the straw. He knew that there was still fight left in her, but that she was smart enough not to waste all her energy pursuing her goal when there was no chance of achieving it. For now, she would rest.

The woman noticed his gaze on her and turned. The Devil's Child jumped back, scampering to his corner in fear. She gave a weak laugh.

"I'm not going to hurt you, little one," she assured him. Her voice sounded kind and beautiful to the boy. "I am Christina. Christina Ames."

_Christina. _What a nice name that was. She smiled at him, but he did not smile back. Slowly, Christina crept closer to him. This time, though, he didn't shrink away. He stayed perfectly still. She stopped at the bars of her cage.

He raised an eyebrow at her, speaking for the first time in so long.

"W-what do you want?"

"I want nothing from you, little one, except to speak with you. May I have that privilege?"

A privilege? To speak with him? He nodded cautiously, and that seemed to please her. But despite his tentative agreement to her request, they did not speak after that. Instead, she fixed herself a little bed out of hay, and he settled back into his corner. He could feel a bit of his wariness slip away.

There was complete silence. The fair had just begun its three-week vacation, the time from mid-December to the first of the New Year when it was closed for the holidays. The boy liked this break. It meant no people, no laughing, no taunting, no beating—in most cases, at least—for twenty-one days. Twenty-one days of sanctuary in his cage.

His eyes slowly turned toward Christina. She had lain down on her bed. Her eyes were closed and her breathing was calm. She must be asleep. The Devil's Child made his way over to her until he was right by the bars, hands gripping them. He examined her carefully.

The curls of her hair rested gently on her thin shoulders, moving up and down with her breath. She had a pretty face with bright, peachy skin and rosy cheeks. He noticed something pinned to the front of her blouse: a little brooch. A brooch in the shape of a dark, shimmering, crimson rose.

A slight giggle met his ears, and he shot backward. He turned his alarmed eyes towards her. Christina had woken up—if she had ever really been asleep—and she had her gaze on him, an amused but kind grin lighting up her expression.

"Spying on me, eh, sweetheart?" She laughed softly.

Sweetheart? She thought of him as sweetheart? He had never heard such a name. It sounded nice, but why would she use a nice name toward him? He was the Devil's Child, after all. He was a monster.

He timidly shook his head. He had no idea what to say. She was still lying there, smiling, and that frightened him. It was so … unfamiliar. He backed up further, but she did not take her eyes off him. The woman let out a sigh. "Do you not like to talk?" she asked.

After a moment of hesitation, he took a deep breath.

"I-I do not know."

It was plain, it was simple, and it was the truth. If he was going to speak with this person, he might as well say what he meant. Christina seemed pleased by his response. She gave him a nod. "I understand. Will you try talking to me and see if you like it?" He was shocked. No one had ever cared enough to try to understand him before, even about something as simple as this.

After a minute of thinking, he nodded in agreement. He would try it and see if he liked it.

She smiled. "Wonderful! Now, what shall we talk about …?" She put her cheek in her palm in a strange position he had never seen before. He tried to imitate it, curious about what it signified. The woman noticed this, and another laugh escaped her.

The Devil's Child quickly resumed his previous place, now rather embarrassed. Only then did he realize that she hadn't been laughing at him to make fun of him. She had been laughing because she thought his action was funny. She wasn't being cruel or harsh; she was just laughing.

He liked this pleasant sort of laugh. It was nice, and he wanted to hear it again. "Will … will you laugh again?"

She blinked. "Will I do what again?"

"Laugh," he repeated a bit nervously.

"Well, of course I'll laugh again, sweetheart. But I cannot laugh on command. There has to be something amusing."

He thought. If he could create something amusing, he could make her laugh. This was a fair, and the people who came to it seemed to think an awful lot of the things were funny. There had to be _something _he could do_. _Then he remembered. One evening before vacation began, he had seen one of the gypsies doing a gymnastics trick. Some girls had laughed at that. Maybe she would think that was funny. He didn't know; he couldn't remember ever laughing before in his life.

He picked up one of his feet and stretched it around to the back of his head. He took the other foot and did the same thing, adding a few hand formations. Hopeful, he looked over to her for her reaction. She had a hand clasped over her mouth. Was that good?

Finally, the woman broke out in hysterical laughter. It was a miracle that no one outside heard it. The Devil's Child was happy. She had laughed!

And he liked that.

He did not thank her out loud. But somehow, she understood that he was grateful. He put his feet back on the straw, rolling his ankles to relax them a bit. He hadn't seen what was so funny about his trick, but as long as it made her laugh, he was fine with it.

She smiled at him. "Well, now that I've laughed for you, little one, I think we both had better be getting some sleep. It's late."

"It is?"

Christina nodded again. "Yes. It's quite late, in fact," she explained. "Goodnight, sweetheart." With that, she laid back down on her straw bed. He didn't reply, and he did not go to sleep.

What had just happened? He wasn't sure. He once heard some older children talking as they left the tent, and they used a word he had never heard: "friend." Was that what could be used to describe this woman? He didn't know. But he thought so.

Yet there was another word that seemed to better fit her. She had been so kind to him. That was something no one had ever done before. She wasn't like all the other people. She was more than an ordinary friend.

He waited until she was asleep. Then he crept over to the bars of his cage, going as close to her as the bars would allow him. After a minute of thinking, he whispered a few words to her. A few words that he truly meant, and had to say. Even though he was still a little afraid.

"Goodnight, Angel."

And he could have sworn he saw her smile.

* * *

He had grown used to waking up shivering in the winter. He only had a pair of old, dark pants, raggedy sock-like shoes, and his sack to keep him warm. It didn't take long for the woman to notice his shaking. She asked worriedly, "Are you cold, little one?"

He jumped slightly. He hadn't known she was awake. Slowly, he shook his head. He didn't want to worry her. He did his best to stop trembling, though he could still feel the biting wind blow over his bare skin. After a minute, he looked back to her.

"Why do you say 'little one'?" he questioned.

"Because I don't know what your real name is," she explained. "And I'm sorry that I have not asked yet. What is your name?"

The boy froze. No one had ever asked him that question. It felt strange, just like when she had been kind to him the day before. He didn't answer for a few moments. Instead, he simply tried to _think_ of an answer. She seemed to be patient enough to wait. After a bit, he finally replied, "The Devil's Child."

He assumed she would merely nod. But she didn't. Christina blinked, looking horrified. He flinched. What had he done wrong?

"That's ridiculous, little one. You are not the Devil's Child." She acted like this was an obvious fact. He kept still, deciding not to respond. She went back to that cheek-in-hand position she had been in the day before, but this time, he didn't imitate her. He simply watched her. He wondered what she was thinking about.

She wasn't sure what she could call him. She wasn't going to call him "little one" and "sweetheart" for the rest of the time she was there. Obviously, no one had ever given him a name. She couldn't say she was surprised.

She had read dozens of books throughout her lifetime, so it shouldn't have been this hard for her to come up with a name for him. The woman let out an annoyed sigh under her breath. _Philippe?_ she thought. _No. Jacques? No. Gaston? No, no. Quincy? Oh, no, not Quincy. Barry? Chapin? Noel? Linus? Percy? Oliver? Pierre? __No! _None of those fit this boy. But what else?

_Erik._

It hit her then. She had once read a story about a man named Erik, and that man reminded her very much of the young one in the cage across from her. She could see him looking over at her from where he sat. He seemed curious.

"Erik!" she exclaimed.

He blinked. "Erik?"

He had never heard such a name. But he liked it. Not once in his life had he considered picking a name for himself, or imagined that someone else would give one to him. Yet here she was, right here, telling him that his name was Erik. The child was pleased.

He nodded. The name was short, simple, and really seemed to fit him.

Christina clapped her hands together, looking happy herself. "Perfect, then! You are Erik!"

Though she couldn't see it because of the bag over his head, Erik grinned.


End file.
